Weave Me a New Skin to Cover My Own
by Masako Moonshade
Summary: .slight AU. Rumpelstiltskin found out what happened to Belle- but he didn't learn it from the Queen. Spoilers for "Skin Deep". Note: Due to a glitch in the system, the final chapter wasn't uploaded when I intended to. That has since been rectified.
1. Chapter 1

The wind is tethered between his knees. Gales tug at the reins, but Rumpelstiltskin forces it to keep steady. It's been too long since he's done this. He's rusty and tired, but by now he's learned that the lead-footed weariness will never leave him. The hypnotic turn of the spinning wheel does nothing to relieve him; he doubts the hunt will do any better, but at least it will satisfy the muttering voice of his patron.

He breathes in the open air, and the scents wash over him—the bitter tang of desperation, the burning spice of lust, the cloying sweetness of revenge. He sifts through them, looking for one he might like, the flavor of need that will match his mood—and then his mind reels and his blood crawls to a halt in his veins.

He knows this one.

Her.

Instinct tells him to run away. In the back of his mind, Zoso sniffs in distaste. _Her again_. A wiser creature would ignore her and torment some other damned soul—one that won't torment him back—but the warning comes too late. Rumpelstiltskin has already tasted the need in her soul, like iron filings on his tongue. There is no desperation in her, no bloodlust or hatred. Only pain.

Agony. Injustice. Betrayal.

He spurs his mount and follows the scent, racing like a hurricane while the world whips past. It takes him to the kingdom he's sworn to stay away from, past the castle, past the forests. The quarry is young, a fresh scar on the earth. The tower rises from the wound like a thorn.

There's more than pain in the air now. There's blood. He's choking on it before the wind can carry him to the window at the top of the tower. Dragging footsteps tattoo the stone floor, long since dried to the color of rust. The freshest trail from the trapdoor to a bed with black sheets, where a figure lies curled under a parchment-thin blanket.

Zoso considers the color— _Black. A precious dye, expensive to maintain, difficult to stain_—but they both see the stains. Darker splotches with a crimson undertone.

When he pulls back the sheet, she doesn't move and he doesn't recognize her. Her skin is the color of the stains on the floor, almost every inch crusted and scabbed, but beneath the mutilation he can see the curve of her jaw, the angles of her cheeks, the thin peak of her nose. His mind reels away, but Zoso continues to stare through his eyes, taking in every detail, until he comes to a bored conclusion.

_Flayed alive._

Rumpelstiltskin shoves the voice away and gathers her up in his arms, blanket and all. A spasm shudders through her body as he moves her. Vengeance burns in his veins, sharp and hot against the freezing horror he hasn't felt in years.

He reins in the wind and carries her to his estate, so fast that branches are ripped from trees and thatch roofs are stripped off buildings as they pass. All the while her pulse sputters and jumps under his fingers, her breath comes shallow. Yellow puss seeps into his clothes as he carries her into his room and lays her across the bed.

The dungeon won't do. The dungeon might kill her.

He rises into a tower of his own, pours tinctures and elixers and mixes up a panacea to steady her heart and stave off infection. His hands shake. He doesn't want to know which of the miserable, useless, crippling, surging emotions is making his mind race. Maybe all of them. He can't tell anymore.

He retreats to the back of his mind, pacing and raging like a caged beast while Zoso finishes the mixture with steady hands. The old Dark One grunts in agitation when Rumpelstiltskin wrenches control back from him and races down the stairs and to his chamber. When he cradles her head in his arms and pours the panacea between her broken lips, he shudders.

He kissed those lips once. They'd been soft and sweet and suffused with the delicate scent of affection. Now they were crossed with scars, hardened by bruises and scabs. They'd scoured her lips.

_They'd scoured her lips._

The ichor in his veins threatens to burn through his skin. His eyes blaze.

Zoso tsks in the back of his head. _My, my. She'll have some dreadful scars when she recovers, now won't she? _

Raw power wraps around Rumpelstiltzkin like a cloak. The windows shatter, the porcelain cracks, the wood of the bed twists and warps. Still unconscious, Belle whimpers in pain.

He doesn't bother with the door. He strides to the window and leaps into the empty air, harnessing the wind before his stomach has a chance to catch up with him. Inside his head, he wrestles Zoso to the ground and binds him in place.

_You know how to fix this_, he snarls.

His patron only smiles.

Rumpelstiltskin picks up the body with one hand. With the other he holds a vial against the fatal wound, collecting as much blood as the container will carry.

Zoso said the spell only required a few ounces, but Rumpelstiltskin is in no mood for precision. When the vial is full, he wills a stopper into it, pockets it, and hurls the body into the pile.

The fools thought they could run.

The spell requires the blood of the one who hurt her—the ones, in this case—but he would have killed them anyway. He hunted them down, scenting them like a bloodhound when they ran, digging the truth out of them in those fleeting, screaming moments before the end. He asked over and over again, but the truth didn't change.

Her father turned her out. Called her tainted, cursed, defiled. Every word that left her lips twisted into lies in his ears, and he raged against her, locked her in a tower, left the clerics to peel away the beauty that had drawn the Dark One's eye.

Rumpelstiltskin made sure his death was a slow one.

All the while Zoso cackled. Doesn't that feel better? So much more productive than brooding over a spinning wheel.

Rumpelstiltskin ignores him and steps past the pile of bodies. In his pockets jangle the vials—enough to fill every shelf in his tower, though they take up no room on his person, and he can't feel their weight as he walks. Only the wind protests the extra luggage as it carries him home, hissing and roaring. It gathers up the blood he didn't take and paints it across the sky, staining the dawn sun an evil red.

Rumpelstiltskin congratulates its artistry.

He doesn't take the time to spin new gold—and besides, he has plenty in his storerooms. _More than he could ever spend_, Belle had said once, and the memory of her voice leaves him writhing. He collects the tiny threads and weaves them into a golden shroud, paints them with the blood of her captors until it glistens with magic.

As he works, Zoso whispers the chant that Rumpelstiltskin suspects was written just for him:

_Leave me in tears, and leave me alone  
>Then weave me a new skin to cover my own<em>

He does not approve, but Zoso laughs with every syllable.

Spell finished, he carries the shroud to Belle's sleeping form. She twitches in her sleep, salt tears leaking from her eyes and stinging down her mutilated face.

Rage wells up within him again—and satisfaction, this time. They won't touch her ever again.

But when he unfurls the shroud over her form, it sits there, limp and useless as a bedsheet.

_Ah ah ah,_ Zoso chides. _Not done yet, is it?_

"What is it?" Rumpelstiltskin demands. Exhaustion leaves him less than his usual eloquent self. "Why isn't it working?"

_It needs the blood of the ones who hurt her._ _All of them._

He rushes away, tears through his belongings until he finds it—the withered, dried rose, all that remains of Gaston. He crushes the brittle petals in his hands and scatters them over the shroud.

Nothing.

He paces and howls, wrapping his magic close to muffle his voice and keep her from hearing. He'll go to the Queen. He'll rip her heart out of her overblown chest and wring it out. He'll tear her to pieces.

_A direct attack? You're powerful, but not that powerful. _

"I'm not afraid of the likes of her."

_I'm sure. But there won't be enough left of you to save this one, will there? Besides, hers isn't the blood you'll need._

"It's her fault," he snarls at nothing. "She did this."

_I marvel at your selective memory._

"That bitch turned her against me! Her pathetic father gave the order. Those filthy cowards did this to her. It's their fault! Theirs! Not mine!"

_I never said anything about it being your fault, now did I?_

He freezes.

"You bastard." He isn't sure who he's talking to anymore. He reaches into his chest, into the gaping emptiness where his heart used to be—he used to think it was such a clever hiding place, until he realized Belle could touch that part of him just as easily—and pulls out the dagger. His name gleams in the morning light.

A fleeting, bitter thought spasms through his mind. His leg became whole when he changed. Under the mantel of magic he's never been safer. Half-curious, he picks up Belle's limp hand and fastens it around the dagger's hilt.

She'd always wanted a chance to be brave. Now here's the chance of a thousand lifetimes—untold power. Unlimited strength.

She'd even get to start by slaying a monster.

_You're not a monster. _

Her voice rises up so solid and clear that he has to look down and make sure she's still asleep. For a moment he wonders if it was Zoso, dredging up a memory to stay his hand. The thought makes him shudder—his consciousness trapped in the back of Belle's mind forever—until he has to watch some other bastard kill her and take her power, take her inside his own head. Blinding jealousy and dark despair feud for control of his mind. He's not sure which is worse—forcing her to spend the rest of her existence bound to him against her will, or knowing that someone else would be bound to her next.

His hand remains wrapped around hers, holding the dagger by proxy as he slides it across his palm. Only a few ounces, Zoso said. He replaces her hand under the shroud—doesn't want to do things halfway, he remembers what happened with those swan boys, after all—and squeezes his hand into a fist. Grey-green ichor seeps from the wound and drips onto the fabric. With every drop the shroud seems to grow warmer, brighter, until the whole room is illuminated by its light. Then it melts like wax against her body, covering her with new skin—unscarred, unmarred, pink and soft in its freshness.

He watches her, his eyes never leaving her until the iron scent of pain fades into a memory. About that time he remembers that she is naked on his bed, her breasts rising and falling with every soft breath.

Perhaps waking to find him standing over her... perhaps it isn't the best way to begin a morning.

He plucks at the black sheet he brought her in, and it dissolves between his fingers. He wraps her up in the down comforter, tucks her in almost like he did his son (though with his son he never had to fight the urge to touch), and remembers himself just in time.

His lips hover a hair's breadth from her forehead before he pulls away.

That's right. No kisses. He almost forgot.

Everything comes with a price.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I own none of it.

AN: The first bit, I felt, could stand alone... but then I kept thinking, and maybe not. I'm starting to get a better hang of Rumpelstiltskin, I think, but if you note anything OOC, please let me know.

* * *

><p>Zoso sulks while Rumpelstiltskin spins. It's an arrangement they share, though Zoso never agreed to it and Rumpelstiltskin never asked.<p>

_A pansy hobby,_ Zoso mutters between long bouts of silence. _Spinning like a girl._

"The girl who stabbed you in the heart, as I recall." He raises his voice into the lilting squeal that makes kings tremble.

Zoso mutters wordlessly, but he retreats back into silence and leaves Rumpelstiltskin with the soft whirr of the spinning wheel. He doesn't look up again until his pile of straw has dwindled to a few wisps and his spool is heavy with gold.

And then he sees her, not quite inside the chamber, her hand curled delicately around the edge of the door frame. She wears an old gown of hers that he believed he might have been able to trade away, which he absolutely did not clutch to his chest and sob into when Zoso was preoccupied with other thoughts. Her hair is tousled and unwashed, and with his sharp intake of breath he inhales a lungful of her scent—and intermingled with it the cloying smell of fear.

She's afraid of him.

Of course she is.

"Awake at last, dearie." His voice hasn't fallen from the old falsetto.

"No." She shakes her head. Slowly. "No I'm not. I'm dreaming again."

When she blinks he vanishes, reappearing on her other side, just out of arm's reach. She flinches away from him, curling closer against the stone. "I assure you, you're quite awake."

"That's what you said last time." She shuts her eyes and breathes deep, bracing herself like she expects him to lash out at her. It leaves him inexplicably angry.

"If you don't want to be here, there's the door." He points it out with a flourish, knowing full well she could navigate it in her sleep. But when her eyes open, Belle's shoulders are stiff, her jaw set, her knuckles white as she clutches the stone.

"I'm not leaving," she says. "Not this time. And you can't make me." He leans back and gives her a halfhearted sneer, but that only spurs her on. "This is my dream, Rumpelstiltskin. And until that sun rises—" She stabs her finger at the window, though this time the curtains have been fastened with so many nails that the stone is perforated. "—I am not going anywhere."

Seeing her standing there— so brave and so afraid, staring at him like she'll strike him down—cuts him deep and leaves him raw and hollow. Rescuing her came easy when she was unconscious, when he didn't have to look her in the eyes and see the accusation there, when he can't feel the wound in his hand like a felon's brand. The cut won't heed his magic and heal, and each throb of pain hisses through him: _you hurt her_.

In the back of his head, Zoso is laughing.

Rumpelstiltskin retreats into himself, wrapping himself in armor made from squeals and dramatics.

"So you've been dreaming about me, dearie?" he cackles. "Oh, do tell."

"Don't mock me," she says, and his shrill giggles die in his throat. He thinks it's that look in her eye, the fire in her voice, but even Zoso's taunting has stopped, and he's not one for sympathy.

_Oh hell, _his patron mutters. _By the burning blazes of hell, Rumpelstiltskin, what did you do?_

Rumpelstiltskin doesn't intend to humor him with a response, but the glint of steel catches his eye, and suddenly he's asking himself the same thing.

In her hand she's clutching a dagger, its edges carved into waves, its flat engraved with a name.

His name.

He lays one hand on his chest, as though he's mortified. "Wouldn't dream of it, dearie. Simply curious." Under his fingertips he feels the hollow of his chest. The emptier-than-it-usually-is hollow.

Shit.

He shuts his eyes, barely a blink, but visions of the past are always faster and clearer than glimpses into the future. He takes her hand from under the shroud, presses the dagger into her fingers. Hesitates, then slices into his hand (the wound throbs at the reminder).

And then he replaces her hand under the shroud, dagger and all. He isn't thinking clearly, his mind still reeling with desperation and self-loathing, his faculties drained from twisting too much magic too quickly. And then she's whole again, perfect and beautiful and _her_, and he's too busy committing her to memory to notice the dagger half-hidden under her naked thigh.

He opens his eyes again to see her clear blue eyes turned down, somewhere below his navel, and he's left wondering just how long he's been staring at the memory of her body on his bed.

"What happened to your hand?" she asks.

Apparently there is a God.

He waves his hand with a flourish. "This, dearie? Nothing important." But her face twists into concern.

"You can't be serious," she says. "Here, let me see it." This time he feels the compulsion like an itch under his skin, a half-forgotten sunburn that can flare into open pain at any moment. He lays his hand in hers, and she brings it carefully to her face, studying it in the most minute detail. "You can't leave it like this—it'll get infected for sure. Is there anything you can do—you know, with magic?"

"Magic is a tricky mistress, I'm afraid." The words surprise him when they leave his mouth. He's got a sneaking suspicion Zoso thought up that particular metaphor, but he forces himself not to react to it. "This is a wound it will not heal."

A twinge of discomfort crosses her features, but it vanishes with a shake of her head. "Then the old-fashioned way will have to do. I'm sure some stitches—"

He tries to pull his hand away, but the dagger's magic won't let him. Instead he lifts his mouth into a sneer. "I'd rather not."

She gives him a look like he's being a grand old baby, but she concedes with a roll of her eyes. "Well, at least let me wrap it. Do you have any camphor? Rosemary?" She hasn't even been out of the damned tower for a full day, barely awake for five minutes, and her first concern is his well-being. Typical. He nods, and she drops his hand like it's made of fire. "Still in your study, right?"

He can only even begin to nod before she darts off like she owns the place. She's been gone for months. How on earth does she remember where he keeps the camphor? How does she know he hasn't moved anything since then? For all she knows, he's added another entire wing to the estate. Magic can do that, you know.

Not that he's actually done any of that. But still. It's the principle of the thing. He's the master of the house, after all.

And she's his master, now that she's holding the dagger. The thought sends a jolt through his stomach.

_You imbecile_, Zoso mutters. Rumpelstiltskin doesn't get a chance to reply before Belle descends from the steps, entirely too much piled into her arms. The dagger is gone.

"Come over here and let me take a look at it again," she says, and he's on his way to her side, pulling rolls of gauze and jars of camphor out of her arms before she can drop the whole load.

"You are allowed to rest, you know," he says flatly. "Nobody said anything about you being my maid this time around." But she juts out her chin at him.

"Maybe I don't want to rest." She shoves aside one of the curtains and deposits her supplies on a windowsill. Billows of dust dance through the sudden sunlight, so bright that she winces away. "Wow, that's bright."

"Well, yes. It's the sun. It's known for lighting things up."

She throws her head back and basks in the glow, but only for a second before she turns her attention back to him. "Now then. Before I forget. Where were we?"

The sunlight streams through her chestnut hair, glitters in her eyes, glows across her newly mended skin, and for a moment he's struck by an impulse that has nothing at all to do with magic. His hand unfolds, and all he wants is to touch her again, to hold her close—but when he reaches out to her she snatches his hand in hers and sets to work, cleaning his wound with stinging alcohol.

He lets out a sharp hiss of pain, and her gaze flicks to his face. The scent of fear hasn't left her yet, and for a moment he can see it mirrored in her eyes.

"It hurts," he explains, his voice lower than he intended.

"It's going to sting a bit." Her entire face radiates gentleness. "But it will get better, I promise. And it won't last long at all." She watches him carefully as she spreads the camphor and rosemary over the cut. Zoso is swearing up a storm, but Rumpelstiltskin remains utterly still, his eyes locked on hers. The salves sent shooting pains into his hand, but he can barely feel them anymore.

She breaks away from his stare to watch his hands as he applies the gauze. Her lips are curled into a thoughtful pout.

"I don't want to apologize," she says, almost as if she's thinking aloud. Maybe she is. "I meant what I said, and I don't think I did anything wrong."

Rumpelstiltskin keeps his face carefully blank, but she doesn't look at him.

"But I did hurt you," she continues. "And don't even try denying it, because I know you better than that. I could see it in your eyes." The imminent protest dissolves on his lips. "And for that, I _am_ sorry." She tucks the end of the gauze under the rest of the bandage, though she doesn't let go of his hand. Her thumb traces a silky pattern over the scales on his knuckles.

A hypnotic rhythm.

He leans forward, and it seems to be just what she was waiting for. Her eyes flutter shut, her jaw relaxes, and she inches closer to him, tugging his hand to rest on her waist as he closes the distance between them. And then he sidesteps just slightly, his lips gliding past her cheek and to her ear.

He's practically drowning in the smell of her, dizzy with the spice of lust that's gathering under her fear. He could do plenty to do away with that anxiety, dearie. _Plenty_. Instead he exhales, his hot breath tickling her ear, and she shudders against his hand.

"You aren't dreaming, Belle."

She goes still.

"You're home with me, where you belong. I found your tower and stole you back, as per the terms of our contract."

Lies. The contract is broken, dissolved in her father's blood.

"You're mine forever, if you recall." His voice rises into a singsong. "And this time I don't intend to let you go."

That does the trick. The passion drains out of her, and in its place settles familiar resignation. She faced this cage with courage before, and he knows she'll make the best of it again. He can't stop himself from loving her, but he can keep them both from acting on it, and this time he knows the signs to look for. This time he'll be ready for her.

She's still got the dagger, of course—that will complicate things—but he can't help thinking that this is going to be an interesting game.


	3. Chapter 3

The castle is almost blinding by day.

Belle took a prybar to the windows, wrenching up the nails one by one until the curtains came free, cascading into a litter of spent metal and crumbled stone. He didn't even get a chance to put the proper spells together before she was back up on the ladder, filling in the jagged holes with plaster. Since then she's declared war against dust bunnies, polished every metal surface, and generally reduced his home to a state of abject _cleanliness_.

Rumpelstiltskin may be a monster, but he's no brute. He offered to help, but she shut him up with a quick "let me do it," and now the dagger's magic won't let him so much as reach for a sponge.

Honestly, this isn't what he expected when he thought about someone's thrall.

What's worse, he never once told her to do any of it. And yet she keeps cleaning, like it's a compulsion, like if she sweeps up every speck of dust she'll break some spell.

He doesn't let himself think about what spell that might be.

Now she's mopping—at least, she's dragging the mop across the floor and gathering up grime that hasn't yet had time to accumulate.

"You're doing it differently, dearie," he remarks, high and reedy as he always is these days.

She turns and gives him that look of hers: her brows high, her chin tucked against her chest, her mouth twisted into a tiny bud of frustration. "I just mopped there."

"Why, so you did." He gives a cursory glance at the footsteps he left on the still-wet floor. "But that does not address the more _pressing_ concern. _You_ are doing it wrong." He points at her with a flourish, just for emphasis. She raises an eyebrow, but the look doesn't change. "You used to do it much better."

"Really?" she asks. "And how's that?"

He twists his face into a mockery of outrage, taking a deep breath as he does, testing the air for traces of fear. Nothing yet. Good.

"You used to dance when you mopped," he declares.

She blinks, her defense forgotten. "I did not."

"Oh yes, you did. And now there is a disgraceful lack of dancing in this house. I will not have it."

She recovers herself splendidly, and she's absolutely not taking his bait. "Why don't you throw a ball, then, if you're so starved for dance?"

He sneers, taking another quick breath, just to be sure.

"No? Then allow me to introduce you to your new dance partner." She pushes the mop at him, curtsying to the handle. "Madame says her card is empty this evening."

"A pleasure as always, m'lady." He takes the mop from her and begins a lively foxtrot, dragging the mop with him across the floor. Belle can't quite hide her laugh. Rumpelstiltskin doesn't even bother hiding his smirk.

He makes a second pass, twisting threads of magic into the air, filling it with grand music to match the beat of his steps. He whirls away from the mop; it keeps flopping, though now it's joined by a gentlemanly coat rack. He doesn't give Belle a chance to turn away before he sweeps her up into the dance.

"Time to switch partners," he says with a sly grin, and she's too busy laughing to refuse. Even distracted, she's light on her feet, keeping step without missing a beat. His wounded hand aches as he lays it across the small of her back, but the pain fades into less than a flicker as he watches her smile.

"I've never seen you dance before," she giggles between glances over his shoulder.

"I'm sure you've never seen a clock dance, either," he returns. Half his collection has descended to the floor, joining them in an impromptu ball. He weaves magic into her clothes, replacing thick cotton and wool with golden threads and spun sugar that catches the sunlight and leaves him dazzled.

He can taste her moods on his tongue—the zest of joy, the airy sweetness of her thrill, that overpowering spice that he's come to think of as _her_. She moves tightly against him, her bodice sliding across his doublet as they dance, and he can feel the heat radiating off her. Her heartbeat races under his fingertips, and he just pulls her closer, moving faster, the music picking up speed to keep up with their own maddened paces.

The world has vanished around them, a cyclone of color and light, when he hears her make a breathless wish: "Kiss me."

It was barely whispered, maybe not even said aloud, but it burns through his skin and sinks into his bones. The magic of the dagger won't let him refuse. He's already so close, all he has to do is close those last inches between them, lay his lips on hers—

And lose his power forever.

The thought hits him like a lead plummet, and he missteps. Within half a beat he's recovered, and his stumble becomes the first step in a sweeping bow. As he draws away from her a deep pain gnaws at his whole body as he resists the dagger's pull. And then he brings her hand to his lips, and kisses her knuckles there. A greeting, a courtesy—hardly True Love's Kiss. The sharp ache that's left over tells him this isn't what she intended, but it's close enough that the burning compulsion fades.

Still bowed low, he glances at her through his lashes. She's stopped dancing. A crimson flush darkens her cheeks, though he can't tell if it's from the kiss or the dance.

"How are you enjoying your ball, dear?" he whispers. His breath comes ragged from fighting the dagger.

Her lip curls into a poorly restrained smile. "Look at you. Your exhausted. You shouldn't push yourself so hard for my sake."

Rumpelstiltskin rises, his hand pressed against his chest, his mouth open wide in mock mortification. "You insult me, dearest!"

Dearie. He meant to say dearie. The lift of her eyebrows tells him she caught it too, but he rebounds as only the Dark One can:

"By the way, your dress is melting." He claps his hands together with a giggle that's entirely too shrill. He can't say he's not enjoying the show.

Apparently there's a reason dresses aren't usually made from spun sugar, and it has nothing to do with the difficulty or expense of making such a thing. Humans tend to sweat when they're exerted, and sugar has a funny habit of dissolving when wet. The gown still glitters, golden and magnificent, but now the bodice clings tight against her chest, and the front of her skirt wraps enticingly around her legs.

Belle glances down and goes still. Shock and horror flash across her face as she contemplates the humiliation of her state of dress, but then another light enters her eyes. She's a princess, and she'll be damned if she lets something like this faze her.

"As a matter of fact, it is," she says flippantly. "Funny, I completely forgot I owned this dress. Remind me, what is it made of? Wax?"

"Sugar, dearie." If not for the compulsion, he would be much more reluctant to answer her. "Gold and sugar."

The news shocks her, but she does a good job hiding it. Instead she plants a wry grin on her face. "Father always said a lady was supposed to have impeccable taste. I never thought he meant it literally."

His mind is going in all the wrong directions now, and he's grateful that the scales of his skin can't hold a blush. She looks him in the eye, a challenge in her stare.

"Shall I have my proper dress back, or shall I continue naked from here on?"

The deal-maker in him doesn't want to back down. If she's not embarrassed by trouncing around bare-skinned, then there's no reason why he should be either. Autumn is on its way, after all; it shouldn't take long before she starts getting cold and decides to wear clothes again. In the meantime he could avoid her—_impossible_—or blindfold himself and navigate the castle by memory and touch—_it's the touch that worries him_—or any of a hundred other options that dissolve faster than her tantalizing gown.

This is an arms race he can't afford to enter and she—damn it!—she _knows_.

He waves one hand dismissively. "That old thing was worn out, dearie. It's high time you had a new wardrobe, don't you think?"

"Something that won't melt, perhaps?" A bit of the old sparkle is back in her eye.

He flashes a crooked grin. "Go take a bath. I'm sure I'll be able to come up with something by the time you're done."

She leaves the room with measured strides, careful not to strain the dress into falling apart entirely. Even so, it clings nicely to her backside as she moves, and Rumpelstiltskin isn't nearly busy enough with returning his possessions to their proper place to keep from noticing.

_Sugar_, Zoso says flatly. _You had to make her a dress out of_ sugar.

"I happen to know that women love spun sugar."

_To eat, you imbecile_.

Rumpelstiltskin shrugs and rifles through a chest of silks and linens, looking for something he can make into the promised gown. Thunder rolls in the distance, and he lights all the candles in the chamber with a flick of his wrist.

What happened can hardly be his fault. He's not exactly an expert on such things. Sugar was a luxury he couldn't afford as a human, and afterward his world was too heavily spiced with emotion for him to bother with the real thing. He didn't sweat, either—the scales that covered his body saw to that—and after centuries of dealing with humans, he'd come to associate that secretion with abject terror.

The fact that other states caused it seemed like an unimportant detail until today.

_That woman's rotting your sense. You almost kissed her, you know._

"I know."

Hearing her laugh more than made up for the theatrics, but that request of hers is still gnawing at his mind. Clearly she's got all the wrong ideas—or all the most dangerous ones, even if they're close to right. This isn't a good direction to be going in.

_No, it's not_, Zoso muses. _You could always try shaking her and shouting again. That seemed to work wonders last time._ Another crack of thunder echoes through the castle.

The memory of that day still aches like the slow-healing wound in his hand, and he swats at Zoso with a burst of will.

"I will not do that," he says slowly.

_Then what _will_ you do? Find her another lover, perhaps? That should do the trick._

"I'm going to make her a dress." His teeth are clenched by now. None of these fabrics will do, he wants Zoso to shut up and the roar of thunder is giving him a headache.

Without properly thinking of it he throws open a window and reaches through it into the coming storm—and then he draws the storm inside, plucking it from a raindrop like a fiber of wool on his spinning wheel. He wraps his magic tight around it, braiding in the sound of thunder, the smell of rain in the trees, the billowing clouds. Zoso falls silent, too focused on steadying the spell to speak. Rumpelstiltskin plaits it together and winds it into a flowing skirt and bodice, and when it's done he drapes it over one arm and carries it to the room that Belle has claimed as her own.

In his mind he can already see her. Visions usually take more out of him than most magic, but today he welcomes the strain. This one has the soft clarity of a still pool, the familiarity of a near, sure future. She gasps as she finds the dress on her bed, runs her hands over fabric that's as soft as the cloud it was woven from. Tentatively she puts it on, as though she's afraid she'll tear it if she moves too quickly, but it fits her perfectly. Arcs of lighting cross the fabric when she moves, safe now though they're not yet tamed, and when they leave her dress they dance in her hair. Breathless, she pushes open the door. She doesn't seem remotely surprised to find him standing behind it.

"What is this?" she whispers, and he gives his best imitation of a modest shrug. Even though he's already seen this once, it takes an effort not to stare.

"Other women ask for dresses made of sunlight or moonbeams," he says. "Not your style at all. A thunderstorm suits you far better, I think."

She blinks, but manages to put don her most wry smile. "And how is that?" Rumpelstiltskin crinkles his nose in a look of distaste.

"Nobody ever needed courage to face moonbeams."


	4. Chapter 4

Rumpelstiltskin is a masochist. There's no other explanation. No other reason why he would stand there and watch her walk out the front door, blazing in a cloak he wove from living fire.

_With any luck,_ Zoso muses, _we'll actually be rid of her this time._

Rumpelstiltskin is not amused. He tries to distract himself by diving headfirst into his work, rearranging the books on his shelves by the first letter of their last word, checking his alchemical lab and noting which supplies he's out of.

_You wrote that already_, Zoso points out after nearly an hour.

"I did not."

Yes, you did. Unicorn blood. You've got it written four times. And you've got fire salamander skin twice.

Rumpelstiltskin glances at the list—the letters crawl across the parchment in every direction like a nest of frightened vipers. Unicorn blood and salamander skin aren't the only ingredients that have been repeated.

_You see?_ Zoso says. You're useless now that she's back. She's off now; let her go.

"She came back last time." It comes out as less than a mutter.

_No, she came back the time before last._ Last_ time, you threw her out and then dragged her back all on your own._

That's the problem. She never agreed to come back, and even if she doesn't know it, the contract between them is dissolved. By all rights, he can't keep her here. Not against her will, anyway. And that means he has to give her the choice to leave. A fair choice, just like before.

This time there's a festival in town, celebrating harvest time. He's sent here there with an order for any sorts of trinkets and baubles that might befit his collection and as much gold as she can carry—more than enough to last her a few months, if she's careful. Long enough to find refuge in some far-off place, where nobody knows her name or her associates.

The thought of it is enough to crack the tower windows.

_Tell me you're not going to do this again, _Zoso sighs. _Don't waste the day waiting up here. Go do something productive. Take a bath. Hunt. Pursue a career in fashion design. Just quit moping already._

And Rumpelstiltskin fully intends to do something productive. Eventually. Any minute now, actually. Any minute. As soon as Zoso shuts up.

Any time now.

The command strikes him like lightning, so fast and so strong that it brings him to his knees. He doesn't even try to disobey—without a thought he plunges through the window in a shower of glass, summoning up the wind to carry him as he falls. Panic floods his senses, and he can't tell if it belongs to him or someone else. His thoughts don't form straight lines anymore, and he's left reeling inside his own head as the wind carries him closer to the source of the compulsion.

The command was a single word.

_Help._

He tastes blood in his mouth—not the ichor that flows through his veins, but blood. Human blood.

He prays it isn't the first vestige of a vision. He doesn't have time for that now, and he doesn't want to know what the future has written. She needs him. That's all he can process anymore. She needs him.

And he's not going to leave her alone this time.

He whips through the air, barely seconds between his leap and his arrival in a wide clearing just to the side of the road. Magic crackles in his wake, but they don't see him.

Oh, but they will.

There's five of them, ruffians in the mismatched garb of those who scavenge off their kills. One of them is swearing and advancing, his face contorted in rage, his left arm darkened with blood from a gash along his shoulder.

Belle stands across from them, backing away as the wounded man advances, a blood-stained dagger gripped in her hand. She stands defiant even in her retreat, her teeth bared, but Rumpelstiltskin can taste the terror in her every breath, as potently as he can the cocktail of fury and desire and the thrill of a chase. Two more slide into place from behind her, snatch her by the arms and hold her in place.

"Leave me alone," Belle snarls. Her commands, meant for other ears, slide harmlessly past Rumpelstiltskin.

"Sure thing," says the wounded man. A dead man—he just doesn't know it yet. He advances, a cruel smile filtering through his yellowed teeth. "As soon as we're done with you."

He lunges. She gets one arm loose tries to lash out with the dagger, but he doesn't get close enough for her to cut him.

No, you need bones for that, dearie. And at the moment, the man is no more than a puddle of skin and sinew.

Screams fill the clearing, Belle's among them. But even as she screams she's fighting—kicking, clawing, thrashing. Visible at last. Rumpelstiltskin dances among her attackers, turning this one to stone, burning that one alive, trapping that one over there inside a tree that grows up around him in the blink of an eye.

And stops.

The twisting threads of the dagger's magic tighten around him, knotting his muscles and freezing his bones, tangling his magic at the tips of his fingers. Suddenly he's frozen, powerless to do anything but stare.

Belle is on the ground. One of the largest of the bandits stands over her, his shirt cut and torn from her attack, the magic dagger in his hands.

The ichor freezes in Rumpelstiltskin's veins as he looks into the eyes of his new master.

"So now you're scared, are ye?" the bandit growls. He inches toward Belle. Rumpelstiltskin can't move, but his golden eyes narrow. Rage scorches his senses. "Who's this, then? Your sweetheart? She important to you?"

The compulsion loosens around his mouth. He can speak again, but only to answer. He doesn't trust himself to form words.

"How 'bout we make a deal, eh?" A nervous laughter creeps up around his two remaining fellows as they eye their dead. "You stay nice and far away, and we won't do anything to this pretty little dear. How's—" He doesn't get the chance to say anymore before the rock collides with the back of his skull. He drops like a shot bird and Belle stands over him, her face white, her fingers still wrapped around the bloodstained stone.

She turns, slowly, ever so slowly, to face the last two men. The rock is in her hands. Her hair is wild. Lightning and flame crackle in her clothes.

Her breath comes in gasps, but her voice is steady and deadly calm: "I suggest you run."

Outmatched and alone, they don't need to be told a second time.

She stands there, defiant and proud, until they pass the tree line. As soon as they're out of sight her knees begin to shake and she sinks to the ground. Rumpelstiltskin materializes under her, catches her, guides her to clear ground away from the bodies.

_Idiot,_ Zoso mutters. _You think she wants to touch you? After what you just did?_

But Belle is shaking too hard to protest, and he isn't about to let her go.

He won't ask her if she's all right. He knows better than that.

"Did they hurt you?" he asks instead, his voice too low in her ear.

"What—" She sounds faint, and he draws her tighter against him. "What are you going to do to them?"

He's already memorizing their faces, their scents, in preparation for the curses that he'll send after them. "Whatever you want me to do, Belle."

She buries her face in his shoulder, and he can feel the convulsions there, the spreading dampness as she tries and fails to keep herself from crying.

"Leave them. Let them go." Sobs thicken her voice, but there's strength in it.

Even without the dagger's command, he can't make himself refuse.

Rumpelstiltskin has to reach out for the dagger, still clutched in the dead man's hand. His magic can loosen the corpse's fingers, but it has no power over the weapon.

_Congratulations_, Zoso says. _It's yours again. Try to keep it hidden this time_.

His benefactor doesn't get a chance to finish the sentence before Rumpelstiltskin presses the dagger into Belle's hands. Zoso utters a string of swears; Belle just looks at him, her eyes wide with leftover shock and fresh confusion.

"Shall I take you home?" He isn't sure why, but he can't bring his voice above a whisper. She nods—soft, faint, dazed—and he lifts her in his arms, cradles her while he reins the wind to take them back. They cross miles in minutes, and in less than that he has her in the room that was once his. When he sets her on her feet she staggers and sways; he isn't sure if she's reeling from the shock of the attack or of travel. He's had hundreds of years to get used to both.

"You'll want to get cleaned up," he says. With a sweep of his hand the door to the washroom opens, the tub filling itself with steaming water. She takes a step toward it, another, and then looks at him over her shoulder.

"Please." Her voice hasn't stopped shaking. "Don't leave."

"Nobody's going to come after you in the bath, dearie." He parts his hands in innocence and plasters a harmless smile on his face. He won't think about what she could be implying. She's still coursing with adrenaline—he can smell it on her. He remembers his own first day on the battlefield, the dizziness, the desperation, the overwhelming need to be close to somebody, anybody, just to make the terror go away.

He's grown since then. He's had hundreds of years to learn about the little human idiosyncrasies that he's lost. He knows all the words to say, all the right touches to chase her fears into blissful oblivion. He could have her in a heartbeat.

The prospect revolts him even as it makes his mouth water. He's made countless deals with countless souls in the throes of desperation, left them ragged and broken from the consequence. He won't do that to Belle.

Not again. Not like this.

But the dagger's magic ensnares his feet, keeps him steady. Belle's eyes are squeezed shut, and she's still shivering as she wrenches words out of her mouth like teeth.

"Please. Don't leave me alone. Horrible—horrible things happen when you're away."

The dagger is still clutched in her hand like a lifeline, but she might as well have plunged it into his chest. He's not entirely sure if it's the magic or her words keeping him rooted to the floor. "I'm not going anywhere, dearie."

A tremulous smile crosses her lips. "Thank you." And she vanishes into the mist of the washroom, the doors shutting behind her.

_And now you're trapped, _Zoso mutters. _Congratulations. Wasn't it a _fantastic_ idea to give the girl the dagger? After all, she did _such_ a good job of it the first time_.

"She had a chance to defend herself, didn't she?" Rumpelstiltskin keeps his voice low so she won't hear him through the door. "She had the chance to call me."

_And a fat lot of good you did. Couldn't even finish the job before she let that oaf snatch it up. Some knight in shining armor you turned out to be._

"Next time I'll be faster."

_How about you make sure there is no next time? Make her give it back and keep her locked up inside. Spare yourself the headaches._

He sneers. "Well why don't you spare—" That's about as far as he gets before he feels it. Fingers running down his back, smooth and feather-light. They brush over him, zigzagging from shoulder to tailbone and then weaving back again.

_Oh yes. This._ Zoso gives a disgusted snort.

"What is it?"

_It happens sometimes when they play with the blade._ Another snort. _Proper people don't play with the sharp end of a dagger. Grasp it by the hilt and nothing else. It's simple, but can these people grasp the fact? Of course not. _Zoso keeps muttering, but Rumpelstiltskin has his own conclusions.

"Before," he starts. "I tasted blood—was that—" The thought promptly vanishes as the touches return—this time on his chest, sliding across his bare skin.

_Annoying, isn't it? _Zoso mutters.

"Sure. Whatever you say." Rumpelstiltskin's eyes glaze over, but not from annoyance.

_What's she even doing with it? Isn't she supposed to be taking a bath? What kind a woman takes a dagger to the tub?_

If Zoso had half a brain he wouldn't keep putting these thoughts in Rumpelstiltskin's head.

"Cleaning it, probably." His words keep catching. Those warm fingers on his chest are so very distracting. "Covered in blood and all that."

He will not look to see for sure. He will not focus his visions to the tub. He will not. But his resolve is fading by the second. Instead he forces his focus on her clothes—he can feel them, the magic that formed them and holds them together, discarded in the corner of the washroom (he will absolutely not think about the spell-heated water in the room's center). It's more difficult to manipulate them from here, unable to see them, but that helps divert his attention from her bath. He scrapes away the dirt and grass stains and dry blood, spins them into silk ribbons for her hair. He can't get much more complex than that at the moment. He wonders if she'll ever wear them—the blood of her enemies.

Maybe she'd find it too gruesome. Maybe she'll wear them proudly, badges of courage.

He's considering the thought with growing satisfaction when the door bursts open and she steps out of the steam. She's wearing a bathrobe now (woven from the feeling of climbing a stair that isn't there), and a blood-red ribbon is clutched in her hands. She looks calmer now. Surprised, suspicious, but calmer.

"What have you got there, dearie?" he asks innocently.

She levels her stare with his. "I don't entirely know. I found it with my clothes just now."

"Did you?"

"It wasn't there when I started my bath." She crosses the floor between them, standing tall despite her petite frame. The shock has faded; she wears the recent fear on her shoulders like a lion's pelt. "You didn't come in just now, did you?"

He wrinkles his nose in a private joke. "I think you would have noticed if I had."

"I'm not so sure about that." Her mouth twists into the bud of a wry grin, and he forces himself not to wonder at exactly what she means. "If you're going to come watch me bathe, at least have the courtesy to knock." The dagger's magic twists the command into place. He bows with a flourish and a comical shake of his head.

"As the lady commands."

Her smile widens, warm and sweet and suddenly a touch nervous. "I wanted to thank you. By the way. For rescuing me."

"Rescue? Hardly." His trilling giggle prompts a silent laugh of her own. "Just providing a distraction, dearie. You were doing quite well at being your own hero."

Her smile grows stronger. Bolder. More like the way she was before towers and clerics and words he never should have said.

"Is it everything you hoped?" he asks, like he did the first time she mentioned her secret ambition.

Her shoulders rise. "Is it ever?"

_Oh gods_, Zoso mutters. _Enough already!_

A quick exercise of the will is all it takes to throttle him and lock him up, silent, in the back of Rumpelstiltskin's head. He's gotten very good at it over the years, and even better in the last few months, but apparently he can't keep the effort entirely off his face. Belle's eyebrows arch.

"Is something wrong?" she asks.

"Just a thought." He waves it away with a twist of his hand, but that light is back in her narrowed, playfully suspicious eyes. He flashes her his widest smile. "Don't ask yet, dearie. It's a _surprise_."


	5. Chapter 5

_AN: Cathay was what people in medieval Europe called China. Any time I need a fantasy equivalent of the orient without making up a new one out of the blue, Cathay is always what I go with. It just makes things easier._

* * *

><p>Belle curls tighter under the thick blanket as a perfumed breeze drifts past her, scattering her hair across her face. Rumpelstiltskin resists the urge to tuck the stray locks behind her ear, to brush his hand over her cheek.<p>

_Admit it already_, Zoso says. _You've got it bad._

Rumpelstiltskin ignores his benefactor. He's tired. Almost exhausted. The spell took every moment of the last twelve hours to put together and calibrate, and that was with Zoso's help. Now that it's done and over with, he'd like the chance to relax, thank you very much.

The sun rises over the distant mountains, slowly lighting up the valley around it and coloring the sky a brilliant gold. The sunlight takes a few minutes to settle on Belle's cheek, and a few more to warm it into waking. She stirs, soft mewling mumbles escaping her lips. She turns away from the rising sun and her eyes flutter open.

The haze of sleep hasn't left them before she sits up, looking around. The only walls in sight are the wide trunks of jungle trees, sprigs of bamboo as tall as his castle, fragrant flowers the size of dinner plates. The cries of a menagerie of animals fill the fragrant air.

And then her eyes turn to him, and her face softens.

His scales are gone, leaving only age-worn skin in their place. His hair, chestnut brown and softly waving, hangs to his shoulders. Her own shoulders sag.

"Just a dream, then," she whispers.

Rumpelstiltskin flashes her a crooked smile. "That again?" He sits beside her on the bed, the human face washing away as he settles into place. "What _are_ these dreams I keep hearing so much about?"

She flushes scarlet and pulls the blanket up to cover her nightgown. "This is real, then?"

"You didn't answer my question, dearie," he says, his smile going sly.

"Where are we?" She sweeps her arm through the air, indicating the foreign landscape. "How did we get here? Why is my _bed_—"

_Her bed, _Zoso mutters. _Hmph_.

Rumpelstiltskin waggles a finger in her face. "Magic dearie. Naturally."

_You know, you might as well answer the question. I want to know why you wanted to bring the damn bed._

He brought it for effect, of course. Nothing quite like waking up in a fairytale land. Granted, that had caused half the trouble—it's one thing to bring a person halfway across the world, or even two. Such a large piece of furniture on the other hand... impressive it is. Easy it isn't.

But one doesn't do such things because they're easy.

"I don't understand," Belle says.

"Didn't you say something about seeing the world?"

She goes still. Her eyes go wide. Her lips part into half a gasp. He memorizes every feature, engraves it in some far off corner of his mind for eternity. In the meantime, there's no wiping the satisfied smirk off his face.

"Where are we?" she whispers when she can speak again. He's decided he very much likes that soft, breathy tone in her voice. He'll have to get her excited more often.

"Tell me, have you ever heard of Cathay?"

This isn't the first time Rumpelstiltskin has been to this land, with its sweeping mountains and lush jungles and occasional dragons streaming harmlessly through the sky like threads of gossamer. There was a time when he traveled all the world, when his powers were still fresh and confusing and he wanted nothing but to forget. He didn't find it interesting at the time, but he's starting to think he should reconsider.

Belle flits about like a hummingbird, rushing to take in every color and shape and sound, every new bit of architecture, every strange pattern. She wears robes in the style of the local fashion, though theirs weren't cut from thick jungle air and the first light of dawn. Rumpelstiltskin walks behind her, disguised as a human so as not to attract attention (Belle's darting curiosity is taking care of that). He moves slowly, but she's so busy studying every angle of every little thing that he has no problem keeping up with her maddened pace. He never bothered learning the language, and so neither did she, but Zoso translates for them with few mishaps.

He can't get over how _happy_ she looks. This was the refugee of a war. This was the girl who sold herself into slavery. The one he shook and shouted at when she tried to kiss him. The one who'd been flayed alive. The one who stared down a gang of bandits.

You wouldn't know it, watching her dance between kiosks as they pass through a market, giggling at steamed buns with a sweet red paste inside. She buys enough food to fill an army, handing it out to each beggar and urchin they pass—and before long she's got a platoon of vagrants following her around, and Rumpelstiltskin considers himself lucky he's spun so much gold over the years. At this rate the economy of the entire city will be booming by the end of the week.

By nightfall she's completely exhausted, and he almost has to carry her back to the clearing where they left the bed. A flick of his wrist adds posts and curtains and a canopy to her resting place, to give her privacy while she sleeps.

She gives it an odd look as they approach. "Are we going back to the castle?" she asks.

"Is that what you want to do?"

Belle bites her lip, and he's struck by just how endearing the gesture is.

"I take that as a no." He flaps his hands at her. "All right, then. Off to bed with you. I'm sure there's plenty of people whose privacy you haven't invaded yet."

She wrinkles her nose and crawls onto the mattress, shutting the curtains around her as she gets undressed. All at once her head pops out of the shelter.

"What about you?" she asks.

He blinks. "What _about_ me?"

"Where are you going to sleep?"

More blinking, before he realizes exactly what he's asking. "That's all right," he says quickly. "I don't need to sleep." His benefactor comes in quite handy in these situations. It's so easy to just turn his mind off and let Zoso have free reign for a few hours. The old Dark One is too cautious on his own to cause too much trouble, but even so, Rumpelstiltskin's been keeping him on a short leash since he brought Belle back to the castle. Just in case.

Belle, on the other hand, doesn't seem to be buying it. "Of course you do! You've been dragging your feet all day, Rumpelstiltskin." He's too busy reveling in the way she says his name to notice the blush rising in her face. In fact, he's completely oblivious until she gives the order: "Come and lie down."

The words are barely out of her mouth before the compulsion sets in. He finds himself moving to the bed (her bed) and all he can do is slow down and choke out a weak "well, if you insist".

Zoso is trying to shout out all the possible ways to redirect her command, turn it into something benign—but for the life of him, Rumpelstiltskin doesn't _want_ to. What she's asking him to do terrifies him, but she looks so hopeful, so vulnerable, and her face lights up like the dawn when he starts to approach. He can't bring himself to extinguish that light. Damn it all, he can't disappoint her.

He climbs between the curtains when the first wave of panic hits him: it's dark behind the thick walls of fabric. He can't see her. He doesn't know where she is, whether he'll step on her or grope her or—

Zoso heaves an agitated sigh and summons tiny orbs of fairy light to float beneath the canopy, lighting up the bed. Belle stares up at them in awe; now Rumpelstiltskin can see the crimson flush in her cheeks clearly, and he's absurdly glad that his scales won't show a similar color.

He drapes himself across the edge of the bed, on top of the covers, one hand propped up under his head and the other on his hip. Technically he's lying down, the command is fulfilled. He waits for Zoso to start urging him to leave, but the old Dark One remains silent. Contemplative.

Never a good sign, in Rumpelstiltskin's experience, but he's a bit too distracted to pay Zoso any mind.

Belle is upright, draped in her nightgown and barely covered by the blanket, her arms folded on her knees, her chin resting on her wrists. She's regrouping; he can see it in her eyes, in the guarded uncertainty on her face. Rumpelstiltskin seizes his opportunity.

"Sure you want me in here, dearie?" He flashes her a wide, toothy grin. "There's monkeys in these forests, and they're the worst gossips. You'll never hear the end of it."

She catches his words like a blow, and her smile turns brittle. "They won't be the first to say it." Her voice is stronger than the look in her eyes. Already he's regretting his words. "The allegations are out there. There's no need to bend over backwards for the sake of appearances." Her thumb flits over her lips, where the delicate skin had once been scoured into raw meat.

"If that's what you want." He shrugs, trying to look more nonchalant than he feels. But she isn't listening. Her thoughts are miles away, her eyes haunted. When she speaks again, her voice is barely audible.

"Why don't I have any scars?"

He's been waiting months for her to ask it, but in all that time he's yet to come up with an answer that satisfies him. So he goes to the old fallback.

"Whatever do you mean?"

She keeps fidgeting with her lips. "My ears used to be pierced. For jewelry, you see." As though he'd never seen women with earrings before. "And when I was little, I fell off a horse and broke my arm, and it left a terrible scar. But that's all gone now." As are the burns. The flaying. The stripes of the scourge. But she doesn't mention any of those, and neither does he.

"Ah. That." Eloquent as always. "Just a minor spell. I thought you could use some freshening up." His fist closes around the wound on his own hand. It's closed, but over the long months a scar has formed across the palm of his hand, jagged from the overlap of tiny scales. He's had enough of this train of thought. "You never did tell me about those dreams of yours."

"And I don't think I ever will." She stretches her legs out and draws the blanket to her chin. "Aren't you tired?"

"As I said, I don't need sleep." His smile returns, wide and wicked. "Though there's plenty of other ways to pass the time."

She doesn't miss a beat. "If that's what you want." Will and defiance spark in her eyes. Rumpelstiltskin waggles a finger in her face.

"Proper maidens shouldn't talk like that, dearie."

"If my father's clerics are to be believed, I'm no maid." Her voice catches at first, but it grows stronger and steadier with every syllable. "I will do what I will, propriety be damned." This is her life. Her fate. And with each word she seizes it and twists it into submission. Rumpelstiltskin finds himself retreating before the force of her will, unsure of whether to flee or goad her on.

"And what is it the lady desires?" The words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them. Too late he recognizes Zoso's handiwork.

Belle just smiles. "Right now? I just want to sleep." She lays back pointedly, half daring him to do something about it.

"Sleep well, then." He doesn't move. Doesn't blink. Doesn't change his expression. Internally he's giving Zoso hell, whirling and blazing while his benefactor giggles, but his eyes remain fixed on Belle. Her eyes close, her breathing turns soft and shallow, her features go slack with the serenity of sleep. Rumpelstiltskin's consciousness curls up like a caged lion.

Because he and Belle are sharing a bed. Chaste as the situation is, the thought runs through him like lightning. A glance into the future shows him the next morning, his arms wrapped around Belle's waist, her back pulled flush against his chest, despite the wall of blankets that separate them. It'll happen after he falls asleep, when he'll start gravitating toward her warmth and the sweet air that hangs over her like a shroud. He'll wake up with his face buried in her hair, surprised despite the forewarning, and happy—more than happy, _content_.

He'll wake up beside her, and for the first time in his life, all will be well with the world.

Bringing the bed was the hard part, but it becomes an opportunity. Every morning he whisks her away to a new land—to Agrabah, to the frozen north, to the jungle homes of the Feathered Serpent, to the lair of Anansi, to the kingdom beneath the waves where mermaids swim. Every day he follows behind her as she dances through each new delight, and every night he spirits her back to their bed in the mountains of Cathay to sleep. The shyness crumbles bit by bit, and soon she's nestling against him for warmth, resting her head on his shoulder, mumbling into his shirt as she drifts off to sleep.

This morning she groans as she wakes.

"Something the matter?" Rumpelstiltskin asks, careful to sound nonchalant.

"I hurt all over," Belle moans. She still smells like salt from her visit to the sea, and when she shifts sand falls onto her pillow. A careful spell made sure she never ran out of air while underwater, but it seems neither of them counted on the strain of swimming with mermaids. He moved easily, carried on tides of magic, but she had to move on her own strength, trying to keep pace with the lightning grace of the locals.

His spells kept Belle warm, but he opted for the icy chill of the sea. He needed it, he found, watching her move through the water, her hair and clothes floating around her, her skin lit by the fluttering glow of sun on the surface.

The memory still warms him.

"Shall we stay in today?" he muses.

That's a bad idea, Zoso says.

"Let's." She tries to turn to face him, and instead she just groans in pain. That won't do at all.

"Here. Let me see." He sits up, slides out from under the sheets, and Zoso shoves against his will hard enough to make him pause.

_Don't_.

Belle glances up at him with half-lidded eyes, her hair tousled from sleep, her lips parted in half a question.

_I know what you're doing. Don't. _

Rumpelstiltskin sidles up against her, his hands closing around her wrist.

_You won't be able to stop yourself if you do. You'll go too far this time._

He starts squeezing and rubbing, working her way up her arm inch by inch. She watches at first, curious, until he hits the sore spots and her eyes roll up in her head. A warm, throaty sound escapes her, and the ichor boils in his veins.

_Stop this, Rumpelstiltskin._ It's the first time Zoso has called him by name in more than a century.

But he's already moving on to the other arm, easing the soreness and stiffness away with a master's skill. He's braiding threads of magic into each stroke, all comfort and sweetness.

"Turn over," he whispers, and in seconds his fingers are gliding over the backs of her legs, easing the tension out of her calves, her thighs. He moves on to her back, untangling the knotted muscle, swaying as he throws all his weight into the massage.

_Rumpelstiltskin—_

The sound that leaves her is something between a moan and a cry. He startles, taking the breath he's been holding since he began the massage. Raw lust floods him, fills his mouth and nose, threatens to burst his lungs.

He can't tell whose it is anymore.

He draws back and Belle follows his retreating hands. When she looks up her cheeks are flushed, her lips crimson, her breath shallow.

_Do you have any idea what you've been doing? _Zoso demands. _What kind of magic you've been using?_

Oh, he's got an idea. And as much as he knows it's a bad idea, he can't stop himself from liking it. Zoso starts backing him to the edge of the bed, and grudgingly he lets his benefactor have that inkling of control.

"That was... very helpful," Belle says, holding onto her dignity despite the desire flowing through her veins. "Thank you."

"Of course." He bows with a flourish, like the look in her eyes hasn't shaken him to the core.

That was a mistake.

Because one of her arms snakes around his shoulder and pulls him _down_. He lands on top of her, his ear in just the right spot to catch her gasp as they collide. Her nails crackle against the back of his shirt, setting him ablaze, and all he wants is her.

"Enough, Belle." The words come out of his mouth. They're in his voice, though they're not him. He'd damn Zoso to the depths of Hell, if not for the next sentence that snaps between his teeth. "This is a spell. Not you. You'll regret it later."

Cold water couldn't have sobered him so quickly, but Belle isn't so easily dissuaded.

"And what makes you think that?" Every note is a challenge.

This time it's Rumpelstiltskin who speaks. "Because I'm the one who cast it. I got carried away. Forgive me." He tries to pull away, but Belle's hands are iron bands around his wrists, keeping him trapped on top of her.

"And when exactly did you get carried away?" she demands, and he's struck by the bizarreness of the question. "Just now? When you brought me here? When we danced? When I kissed you?" She sits up beneath him, her eyes inches from his. "Are you the one who makes me dream about you every night?"

A thrill races like fingers up his spine. She releases his wrists, one by one, to cup his face in her hands.

"Whatever you tell yourself. Whatever you want to think, you can't change the way I feel for you. And I—"

**Come here, Rumpelstiltskin.**

For a moment he's blind and reeling, aware only of the sudden cold and the stone under his knees where soft blankets and warm thighs had been. When his vision clears he sees the familiar lines of his castle, the room that had once been his.

The Queen considers him carefully, a smile on her too-red lips as she twirls his dagger in her hands.


	6. Chapter 6

_AN: The dialogue you see later is a reflection of the way I speak when I'm attempting German- not exactly mastery of the language in question, but it's close enough that it can be understood, and generally gets better as a conversation goes on._

* * *

><p>Weeks become months.<p>

The Queen has planted her own dark throne in his grand hall, taken the room that used to be his (_Belle's_), sequestered him to the dungeon halls. It isn't as though he can't make the place more comfortable—the Queen doesn't care nearly enough about his daily affairs to keep him from sealing drafts and smoothing stone—but she's already stolen the only comfort he might have had.

The little chipped cup is nothing but powder now, smashed under his own feet by her command. The dresses Belle wore are torn to shreds, their magic reworked into more flashy spells.

His only solace is that Belle is gone, too far away for the Queen to bother with, so long as he behaves. And so he behaves. He curses mermaids. Murders Snow White and arranges her head on a pike, in a bouquet with her little dwarf friends. The tasks might not have bothered him once, but every new act leaves him repulsed.

He can't refuse. He can't escape. He can't even resist anymore.

When he starts to rebel, when magic crackles at his fingertips, ready to crush and tear and burn, the Queen pouts at him with a sweet, heartless smile.

"It's getting absolutely filthy in here, Rumple. Do you think we should bring back that girl of yours?"

Her words bind him better than shackles or magic ever could.

He doesn't even dare watch Belle in visions anymore. The Queen can tell when he does, and her lips curve into that patent smile.

"Tell me," she says. "How is dear Belle?" And the command squeezes the truth out of his throat.

Better to say "I don't know". Better to leave her without ammunition. Better to wither alone in the dark than to drag Belle down with him.

* * *

><p><p>

It's been months since Belle sold Rumpelstiltskin's bed. More than a week after he disappeared she traded it for a horse, and when the horse wore out she traded that for a pair of iron shoes, and when they wore into filings she walked barefoot. She wears cotton and wool now—her robes made of dawn and jungle air have been traded away for food and shelter, and she kept going, ever west, back to the Enchanted Forest and the only home she has left.

She always meant to see the world, but she never imagined it would be like this.

One vision haunts her—the look on Rumpelstiltskin's face before he disappeared, the shock and hurt and, if she didn't know better, fear.

The thought chills her. Because anything that could frighten Rumpelstiltskin…

She doesn't like to think about it. Instead she focuses her energy on walking, mile after mile, mountain after moor, crossing the vast expanse of Cathay one step at a time. With nothing left to her name, she lives by begging at night, she sleeps under trees, she drinks from streams. Sometimes painful thoughts cross her mind—that he came back to where he left her, that she wasn't there, that he'll think she abandoned and betrayed him when all she wants is to find him again.

She tries not to think of that either.

Between begging and bartering, she's learned a few words of the native language. Not much, but between those few words and an armful of gestures, she can make herself understood. She sings sometimes for money, because music needs no words to be understood. She's singing when the woman approaches.

She's a noble woman, clearly: her face is made up, her clothes are silk, her sleeves flow well past her fingertips, her hair is an intricate arrangement on her head.

She speaks softly, her narrow brown eyes kind. Belle can't understand all of what she says, but she gathers enough that she's being offered something.

She ducks her head in a quick bow. "Yes, thank you." And the woman smiles, bids Belle to walk with her. Belle hesitates, remembering the last time she walked with a strange woman, and it's only then that she realizes that this lady of obvious prestige has no carriage, no palanquin, no servants or guards at her call. She's left wondering about it until they reach a sprawling estate, where an old man (the woman's father, she sees it in his face) greets her with a beaming smile, and servants whisk Belle away to a bath and a change of clothes and a grand dinner.

It isn't an opulent feast, Belle notices. Not overwhelming—simply_enough_.

"You are… from the… Forest lands?" The woman asks as they eat. She picks out each word as though from a jewel box. Her accent is thick, but her expression is clear and easy to understand.

Belle blinks in surprise, but quickly recovers. "Yes. And I wanted to thank you. You've been too generous."

The woman smiles. "How did you come to be in our land?" she asks after another long pause.

"It's…" Belle ducks her head. "It's a rather long story." But the woman's smile doesn't fade.

"I do like stories."

Belle looks her in the eyes, trying to find the motives hidden there, but she can't detect anything. Not that she's been particularly astute in the past. But she's been fed, bathed, clothed and sheltered, and she has nothing left to give except her story.

She begins at the beginning—the ogre wars, the desperate plea to Rumpelstiltskin, the deal she made to save her home. The lady's eyes light up when she gets to that part, and Belle wonders how much of her words the other woman understands. There is no judgment in the woman's eyes as Belle tells of Rumpelstiltskin—only laughter as Belle imitates his grand gestures and trilling giggle, and a soft compassion as Belle mumbles about the feelings that built up inside of her, the looks they'd exchange, the deals they made.

The kiss they shared.

She's pouring her heart out to this complete stranger, but the more she speaks the harder it is to stop. She's never told anyone any of this, except between screams as the clerics bellowed at her to confess her sins. There are tears in her eyes as she explains her punishment for saving her people, and then waking up like a dream in the house of the man who'd rejected her. She talks until her mouth goes dry, and then she gulps down her tea—it's already gone cold—and continues while servants pour her another cup. She talks of magical balls and thunderstorm dresses and daring rescues and soft touches—and then she tells her host about the way he disappeared. The look in his eyes. The emptiness beating in her chest when she thinks that he's gone.

"That's why I'm here, you see," she finishes weakly. "I don't know if he left me. I don't care. I have to find him. And if something's happened to him, I—I have to do something. I have to help him."

"You must save him," the lady of the house observes with a nod.

"If I can ever reach him," Belle sighs. The lady of the house gives a smart nod.

"Yes. You need a horse." She rises gracefully from the table, and a servant glides to her side. She speaks in the native tongue, but Belle can gather something along the lines of "prepare Kahn to ride. Have him ready to leave in the morning."

"Yes, _Huixia_ Mulan." The servant bows low and hurries off. The lady of the house turns, beckoning Belle to follow her.

"You are a loyal daughter," she says as they walk through the endless halls of the estate. "And a loyal wife." She doesn't turn to see the sudden flush that colors Belle's cheeks. "I once made such a sacrifice as you made. But I could not have done so without help." With a sweep of her arm she opens a bamboo case; behind it is aged armor and a sword that curves and winds like Rumpelstiltskin's dagger. The woman's hand slides out of her sleeve to seize the sword, and for the first time Belle can see the naked hands: her forearms are corded with muscle, and her tiny hands are coarse with calluses that she's come to associate with Gaston. Swordsman's hands.

She lifts the weapon from its place on the wall and hands it to Belle as though it's a feather. As soon as her fingers leave the hilt, though, the sword all but tumbles out of Belle's grip. It's huge, and heavier than it looks.

"Thank you," she says, gasping with the effort of keeping the sword off the ground. "This is—it's too generous, and I _am_ grateful. But… but I'm worried that anything that could frighten Rumpelstiltskin couldn't be hurt by a sword. Even one as—" She can't find a word for it. "Powerful as this one."

"A wise decision." The lady takes the weapon from Belle's hands, and her smile goes sly. "But tell me, how do you feel about dragon fire?"

* * *

><p><p>

A year has passed since he's seen her. Longer than that. Possibly centuries, though Zoso tells him he's being dramatic to say so. The Queen says she's made his castle into her summer home, and they've only come back here twice. A year then, maybe two.

And then he feels it, like a blow to the stomach, like a seizure. The wards around the castle crackle and flare, and he feels every one, feels the tug of the familiar, the scent that he can't forget.

His first impulse is to run to her like a faithful spaniel, to gather her up in his arms and hold her until the sun goes dark.

But that impulse dies quickly, buried beneath panic and horror. She needs to leave. She needs to get away. She was safe in the distant lands, why couldn't she have stayed there?

_Calm yourself,_ Zoso warns. _Remember the mirror_.

And Rumpelstiltskin forces a benign mask over his face, hoping that the Queen's stooge hasn't seen. Wondering if it's going to make any difference.

Shutting his eyes, he lets the future roll over him.

Belle knocks at the door. It bursts open at her touch, and for a moment the softest twinge of hope brushes her features. It's quickly crushed.

The Queen appears just before it, her face painted like a dear friend.

"Oh, I remember you!" She claps her hands together. "The girl from the woods. What a wonderful surprise. Tell me, how _ever_ did it go?"

"What are you doing here?" Belle's voice is even. Guarded. She knows better than to trust the old hag.

"Doing? What a personal question." That laugh is supposed to be a giggle, but it comes out much darker than that. "But if you must know, I'm spending the summer with a paramour of mine." Her smile is conspiratorial, but sharp enough to draw blood. "You really must meet him, my dear. I'm not usually one to kiss and tell, but he's quite a ride, let me tell you."

The mask on Belle's face is a masterpiece, but Rumpelstiltskin can see the hurt in her eyes. The shame. And beneath it all, the defiance.

"I'm sorry to hear that," she says. "Because I'm here to take him back."

The Queen makes a show of looking offended. "Excuse me?" Staged pity. "Oh, dear. Maybe you've gotten the wrong idea. He's with me now. Why in the world would he want a dirty little thing like you?"

"He's said that before." Belle's smile is cold and rigid. "It wasn't true then, and it isn't true now. He's mine and I won't leave here without him."

"I'm sure that's what you think." The game is over. With a whisk of her wrist, the Queen signals her men. "Guards, remove her."

Belle pulls a red tube from her pocket, thrusts it into the nearest candelabra, and hurls it at the approaching guards. It's over their heads before it explodes into a burst of flame; those guards who aren't backing away are trying to put themselves out.

Belle reaches into her pocket and pulls out another firecracker.

"I think you misunderstand me, Your Majesty," she says.

The Queen only smirks. "Fireworks, dear? You really should know better than to wear your weapons." With a sweep of her hand she summons the flames out of the fireplace into a roaring pillar, arches it over her head—

Belle rips off her travelling pack and throws it into the oncoming fire. Time seems to freeze: the Queen wraps a protective spell around herself. Belle ducks behind a pedestal for shelter. The guards hit the floor. The pack explodes, bits of shrapnel embedding themselves in the far walls.

A command etches itself into Rumpelstiltskin's bones: **Come here**.

He sets his face into a rictus and begins to walk. He doesn't have to vanish and reappear. He's ready this time, and that means he can defy, if only a little. As long as he can stand the pain.

The Queen frowns at his defiance, and then her lips curl into a wicked smile.

"My, you really _are_ serious, aren't you?" She shrugs, and the flames die. "Very well. Go see him, if he's so important to you."

Belle rises, careful and wary, from her hiding place. She's got one last firecracker clutched in her hand. The Queen merely sighs.

"No need for dramatics, child. He's in the dungeon. Nobody's going to stop you."

**Stay where you are, Rumpelstiltskin.**

Belle's eyes go wide, and she sidles down the familiar paths, not trusting the Queen with her back. A wise move. She just doesn't know what she's getting into.

When the Queen's out of sight, she breaks into a run, and then future and present collide.

There she is, real and alive and whole and beautiful. The sun has darkened her face and added streaks of gold to her hair, now plaited to keep it out of her eyes; her hands have grown callused, and new muscle winds its way under her clothes.

He can't stop himself.

"Belle?" It comes out a croak. She breaks into a smile, like sun after a storm, and rushes at him. It's all he can do to throw out his hands. "Belle, stop. You have to leave. You have to—"

"No, Rumpelstiltskin." She keeps walking, and his outstretched arms crumple against her waist. "Not this time."

"Belle, please. You don't understand—"

"No. I don't. But I understand the only thing that matters." Her hands wrap around his neck. "I love you."

He hears a cold laugh echoing from the other side of the dungeon's mirror.

**Now kill her.**


	7. Chapter 7

AN: As it turns out, this last chapter didn't upload when I last tried to upload. You have my sincerest apologies. Here's the long-overdue conclusion:

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 7<strong>

The Queen's command echoes in Rumpelstiltskin's ears, but she says it again anyway, for spite.

**Kill her.**

It digs into his skin like a fresh tattoo, twisting around his bones, burning into every fiber of muscle. His fingers twitch for her throat of their own accord; his hands shake even as he forces them to stay still.

Magic gathers at his fingertips, but he crosses the threads of devastation with sky blue and smiles and chipped cups, leaving its power snarled and hopelessly tangled.

Belle stares up at him in alarm. He couldn't keep this off his face if he tried—every second of resistance is a firebrand in his core.

"Rumpelstiltskin?" Her voice is high and frightened. "What is it? What's wrong?"

_How silly_, he thinks, the thought numb despite the pain. _You should be worried for yourself_.

The shaking spreads, grows like a cancer. His knees buckle beneath him and he falls—would fall, except Belle's arms wrap around him, lower him to the floor as gently as she can. Comforting the man who's going to murder her. The irony of it hurts almost as much as the compulsion.

"Belle—" He can barely get out her name. His tongue rebels, trying to twist the syllable into the beginnings of a curse. "You need—to go. Run. Please. She—she'll make me kill you."

Like running away will save her. Like the compulsion will get any weaker if she's in the jungles of Cathay or the bottom of the sea. He'll track her down, hunt her like an animal. Slaughter her.

And there's nothing either of them can do about it.

"I can't stop—_please_, Belle—"

But Belle pulls him closer, cradles him in her arms despite the convulsions. She's smiling, but her eyes glitter with tears as she takes his hand in her own. Pulls it to her chest. Lays it over her heart.

"It's all right," she whispers gently. "I'm not afraid."

His traitorous fingers twitch. All he has to do is pull a single thread of magic. Stop her heart. It would be quick. Painless.

And then she'd be gone forever.

There has to be something he can trade, some deal he can strike. He'll level continents. He'll build galaxies. He'll beg. He'll die. Anything. Anything but this.

_You idiot_. Zoso is gasping from pain and the effort of reining in the compulsion. _Can't do a goddamned thing to stop the curse. You know that._

The realization strikes Rumpelstiltskin just as Zoso forms the words: _So take it out of the equation._

Rumpelstiltskin hands over the last of his control to his old benefactor. Magic takes too much focus, and he can't afford to concentrate on anything else.

He pulls Belle down to him—he can't lift himself up to meet her anymore—and covers her lips with his own. His mouth is begging, pleading, even though he's shaking too hard to really feel her against him.

A scream fills his ears, and he presses harder against Belle. It's been centuries since he stopped caring about gods, but now he prays to every last one of them: _Don't take her away from me._

His own voice echoes in his head: _my power means more to me than you_. Blasphemy. Let them take it all. Let time take their boon and rot him to dust. _Just let her live_.

Something shatters inside him, like metal struck on stone. Vaguely he's aware of scales falling away in a shower of gold, the odd silence in the back of his head, the throbbing pain of a heart as it beats for the first time in centuries. But he isn't paying attention to any of that.

Because he tastes blood in his mouth.

He doesn't want to look. Doesn't want to see if the kiss came too late. If he really killed her. The coward in him is looking for corners to hide in, shouting desperately for Zoso and knowing the Dark One will never come back.

Another part of him can't stand not knowing. That part swallows the fear along with the lump in his throat. And opens his eyes.

Belle stares back at him. Her eyes are wide, her breaths heavy, her lips bruised from the intensity of the kiss. A trickle of blood flows from a fresh split where her lips were forced against her teeth, and he can't even think to be annoyed with himself.

She's alive.

_Alive_.

He shudders, suddenly cold and numb from relief, and lets his head fall to her shoulder. She holds him close, runs her hand over his back as though he's a child with a fever.

"Are you all right?" he asks. His voice is lower, huskier, than it's been in centuries. "Did I hurt you?"

"I'm fine," she whispers into his hair, and he can hear the smile in her voice. "What about you? Are you—"

Rumpelstiltskin feels the crackle of magic before he hears the familiar click of heeled shoes on the stone floor. Belle goes rigid, grabbing him tight against her chest. He has to crane his neck to see the Queen approach, her too-red mouth curled into an annoyed smirk.

"Well. That's one way to do it." She shrugs, her smirk turning feline and cruel. "I suppose congratulations are in order for the happy couple?"

"I appreciate the sentiment, Your Majesty," Belle says with a forced smile. She shifts just slightly, letting go of him to reach into the pocket of her dress. "Is there any chance of you letting us go, then?"

The Queen's lip curls. "Hardly."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Belle draws the last firecracker from her pocket and hurls it, unlit, into the Queen's face, as magic curls around the Queen's hand.

Abruptly it strikes Rumpelstiltskin that he can see it. Feel it. The magic that's gathering around them. He sees the threads weave into a wall around the Queen, while others, like puppeteer's strings, wrap around Belle's throat.

_I think not, dearie._

There was a time when he would have delighted in watching the bitch die a slow, painful death. Five minutes ago, perhaps. But now Belle is in his arms, and he won't make her witness another torture. Today he'll content himself to watching his enemy die. She'll never take revenge on Belle. She'll never harm another soul.

Her defense is excellent, but now he can see the holes in it, the weaknesses, the little bits here and there that he need only _push_—

The walls crumple around her. The firecracker ignites, explodes—and now he's weaving the magic around it, fanning the flames, shifting the air, twisting the bits of paper into razor-sharp diamonds, throwing up another wall as naturally as breathing.

Time begins again. He didn't realize it had stopped. The firecracker explodes, swallowing the Queen in flame and shrapnel. He can feel the thunder and force and fire on his shield, but it gets no further. Doesn't even ruffle Belle's hair.

Such beautiful hair, really.

There's work to be done—a body to dispose of, a castle to reclaim, a platoon of soldiers to evict or hire or turn into snails. Magic to reacquaint himself with. A beautiful woman to make love to.

He's particularly looking forward to that last one.

All in good time. For now he only climbs to his feet and helps Belle to hers. They stand ankle-deep in debris, in the crater that once was the Evil Queen. The air is rank with fire and flash powder and burnt flesh, but underneath it all is a new scent. He's never tasted it before, but he recognizes it instantly, crisp and clean as a mountain spring: the chance of Happily Ever After.

Belle stares at the charred remains of their attacker. At him.

"Did—you didn't—?"

He twitches his head to the side and smiles in the old way. The way she remembers him. He thought it would calm her down, but she blinks back tears.

They don't look like happy tears.

"I don't understand," she whispers. "I thought—I thought it would free you."

Ah. And suddenly her logic is clear. True Love's Kiss should have done the trick. And if it didn't, then surely it wasn't True Love, was it?

Unless the magic stayed behind when the curse dissolved. It's a part of him now.

He cups her head in his hands and kisses her again, soft and sweet.

"It did," he whispers into her mouth.


End file.
